How does the 20th
Century Sibyl Vane become a vicious metal hound? What strange
alchemy is at work here, what manner of replacing each speck of cell
with spot of glitter and cold? How does she convince herself that a
white rabbit will become a white steed, or think that a swan hides a
princess—when the pack rises up and one discovers they are a deck
of cards, all 2-dimensional? Or is it before then, possibly; when it
is made plain that a ladder to the stars cannot be climbed while it's
made of smoke? Oh, to climb, as simple as to fall, down a rabbit
hole, or from the spangled chandelier.

When does Alice
turn to malice? For that, my dears, it is necessary to learn what
makes Little Miss Muffet sit where spiders are about, why a child
might ignore the warnings of perfect poison that reach her ears and
trust a stranger to tell her the truth, even when she knows enough to
see a lie when she hears one. To depart from the teacup and the
tried and true tradition, to find the bottle and uncork it.

Drink me.

I.

'Have you read him?'

'Who?'

'Wilde.'

Cooper was
characteristically calm, draped across the desk, and her hands were
shaking with nerves as she looked up at him. Every muscle was
relaxed, casual—done with a calculated nature that almost terrified
her. It seemed so easy. It seemed so—a catch in her
throat—so real.

'Yeuh—yes,' she
answered truthfully, dropping the number 2 pencils caught in a rubber
band into the drawer and shutting it, then bringing her hands up to
her face. Her fingers traced her Cupid's bow, but none of the
lipstick smudged onto her nails. She was looking at him with a sense
of quiet, almost like a mouse.

'Re-read him,' he
said. Agile movement, one leg kicking over, then the other, then a
swift, fluid spin as he turned to face her again. Her eyes switched
onto his in a moment; his twinkled. Had he possibly noticed the way
her eyes had lingered as he'd leaped down, with that grace, so like
ballet? Just a brief glance, devoid of intention; perhaps really out
of curiosity, and she'd made it. But she hadn't meant to.

She didn't tell him
so. She was only aware of him, as he leaned forward to brush
his fingers across her cheekbone.

'Take care, Shannon,'
he said. As his knuckles touched her skin their progress slowed, so
that when they had neared her jaw, they were almost resting there;
she could feel where the warmth was concentrated, almost with intent.

'Hm,' she managed,
eyes as innocent and attentive as she could have them. His
expression was more closed; he seemed almost brooding, dark eyes
intense for a moment, and then he was gone. "Hm," she'd said.
Like, "hm, that's interesting," or "hm, I think my gaze shall
now accidentally drop down;" though, thankfully, it hadn't.

"Take care, Shannon."
As though he'd meant it. As though it was—had to give the door
a jerk before it would open—was real.

II.

It was so unlike her to
leave her things packed, but they'd only just returned from America
and she had so much to do that when they'd gotten off the plane,
she'd only deposited the suitcase and collapsed onto the bed, "A
dream in lace," as her mother might have said. "A vision in
white."

Oh, yes, a vision, a
dream, a ghost. Shannon found herself nodding as she lifted the
nightgown from last night in one hand and a large leather bag filled
with books from the public library in the other. Something entirely
anachronistic.

White lace crumpled to
the floor. Cotton, high collar, buttons up the front, long sleeves,
long skirt. She could hide her ankles in it. All her hair, light
brown and streaming, fell down around her shoulders, and if she stood
before a light, her mother said the outside of her hair would be
illuminated blonde, like an angel's halo.

Ghost, ghost, ghost.

Angels, that was
something else. The only image of an angel she had anymore was
filled with sequins and polka-dots and loud, loud colours. Vibrant
fake wings, red with silver glitter on them. Each fake red feather
equally soft. "Oh, Shannon, you're a dear." Dove coo,
obviously high and affected—like the shoes she tottered in. High
heels; that demure little strut, affected. Pretty little hand,
extending a flower out to her, and she took it.

Shannon almost never
left her nightclothes on the floor, or anything. But there on the
apartment floor was her nightgown, just where she'd dropped it.
Then she seated herself on the edge of the bed and tugged her shoes
off before scampering back over the seats, tugging the brown leather
back along with her and then sitting on one hip, her knees drawn up.

As though she expected
a wealth of gold or paper dolls to come out of it, she turned the bag
upside down. Library books tumbled out, bounced on the bed. Only
one was face up.

The Picture of
Dorian Gray.

She opened the cover
page and skipped the preface, which she remembered not understanding
when she'd read it in high school. The pages flipped through her
shining fingernails and then she tugged the book towards her, lifting
it up nearer her eyes.

'The studio was
filled with the rich odour of roses,' she said, her voice hardly
anything to fill a room with. Nonetheless she would continue out
loud until she was into the story sufficiently; soft-spoken and often
silent, it was a paradox in her nature that had never occurred to
her. 'And when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees…'

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